


Recipe for Romance

by afterandalasia



Series: Adventures in Slash: Romance Without Boundaries [13]
Category: Atlantis: The Lost Empire (2001), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cannibalism Puns, Crossover Pairings, Cultural exchange, F/M, First Meetings, Flash Fic, Food Porn, Implied Cannibalism, Slash: Romance Without Boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 16:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10700334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: Of all the booths at the cultural exchange event, Kida finds her attention most drawn to the man cooking alone at the booth with the Lithuanian flag.





	Recipe for Romance

**Author's Note:**

> Fic for Slash: Romance Without boundaries. Prompt was Hannibal Lecter/"a character who has difficulty keeping their clothes on", meeting over dinner at some sort of cultural exchange event.
> 
> Recipe for yuka taken from [here](http://www.thelithuanians.com/bookanthology/food/soups.html).

“People can be… delicate about the food that they eat these days,” says the man in the fine suit. “But _yuka_ is a delicacy best created by experienced hands.”

There are any number of booths at the cultural exchange, and in the food hall the air is rich with the smells of spices and herbs, bright with laughter. But Kida’s attention was caught by the booth with its Lithuanian flag, a suited man and a young woman working alone to cook and serve food which was apparently so popular that it had not only filled his allotted seats but had spilled over into those of his neighbours, and had people standing besides. The young woman had a scarf around her neck, and did not talk much as she served, but when the man had seen Kida looking curiously he had caught her eye and smiled.

“I don’t think that I have heard of it,” she replies, craning to look more closely at what he is doing. The soup is a rich deep red, the surface almost reflective until he breaks it to pour some into the bowl. He delicately scatters strips of bay leaves over the top, and places the bowl on a plate with a hearty slice of dark rye bread whose softness and shape make it clear that it is handmade. “What is in it?”

The man places it in front of her, smile widening. “I ask that you take a bite before I tell you. It does not do to have… preconceptions.”

There is something playful in his smile, a joke hanging in the air just between the two of them. Kida lifts the bowl, takes a spoonful, and takes it into her mouth without her eyes ever leaving the man’s. The soup is thick, taste bold and lingering without being overwhelming, the bay leaves just the right bite against the richness of it. The meat within the broth is so tender that it falls apart at the touch of her tongue, never mind her teeth, and the texture is exquisitely fine.

She murmurs appreciatively as it goes down. “It’s very good. Familiar, but… not quite.”

“I am glad to hear it.” He steps to the side, and Kida shadows him. A movement of hands, deft as a magician’s, and he adds a scatter of mushrooms and vegetables to the pan before lighting them in a flash of flambé. Kida is impressed simply that the white cuffs of his sleeves, and the white of the apron around his waist, are still so perfect. “It is best translated as blood soup. Matching the meat to the blood of course improves the texture. Traditionally it is done with poultry, but,” his eyes linger as Kida dips the rye bread into the broth and takes another bite, “I find that red meat gives a far heartier flavour to it.”

“If there are those too worried about the word _blood_ to appreciate this,” she replies, “then they are certainly missing out.” The rye bread, too, is perfect, caraway keeping it strong enough to stand beside the soup.

They talk a while longer, at first about food and then about their home countries, and he is fascinated to hear that her country has been so isolated for so long. That she is the first to leave in so many years.

“Perhaps you should visit,” she suggests. Her bowl has long since stood empty, and he has continued to cook until the crowds have finally started to thin. “I would like to see more people come to know my country.”

“Well, I do have a taste for travel. I will probably be busy until the food hall closes for the day, but perhaps after that we could meet up again?”

“Of course. What did you say your name was?”

“Hannibal.” He smiles, eyes glittering. “Hannibal Lecter.”


End file.
